"It's the same on Konami's side. It's like seeing a ghost." Kozuki Kagemasa flipped to the next page of the report, his tone full of puzzlement. "But the strange thing is, those small-budget casual games under us that barely got any promotion are selling like wildfire. That proves players aren't short on money at all—but they'd rather die than buy the big titles!"
"I've been wondering about this damn weirdness too." Tsujimoto Kenzo exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "Come out for a drink tonight? Call Hudson's Kudo and Namco's Nakamura too. Let's all get together and compare notes. This market is way too abnormal."
"Fine. Usual place."
Eight o'clock that night, at a discreet, high-end ryotei in Ginza.
The private room was quiet to the point of oppression. The only sound was the gentle burble of sake being poured into porcelain cups by waitresses in kimono.
Kozuki Kagemasa, Tsujimoto Kenzo, Hudson president Kudo Hiroshi, and Namco president Nakamura Masaya—four heavyweights whose every stomp could make Japan's game industry tremble three times—were now seated around a low table, each wearing a different expression.
Kudo Hiroshi drained the sake in his cup in one gulp and irritably tugged open his tie.
"Hudson's situation is exactly the same as yours." Kudo Hiroshi picked up a piece of expensive bluefin tuna sashimi with his chopsticks, but it tasted like wax in his mouth. "Big productions simply won't move, not even when bundled with discounted older games. Players clearly ate that up in the past few years. But a multiplayer casual party game that doesn't require any brainpower, like Jupiter Bomberman, has been shipping like mad nonstop. Did all these players take the wrong medicine together?"
Tsujimoto Kenzo tapped ash from his cigarette and gave a bitter smile. "In past New Year holidays, players